


(Let's Try and) Work it Out

by Glowsticks



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: College Student Peter, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Fitness instructor Wade, M/M, Slow Build, Smut, Yoga instructor Peter, but peter is really strong, lowkey stalker Wade, no powers, shameless instagram stalking, the sassiest of all Peter Parkers, wade is not good at yoga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9817682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowsticks/pseuds/Glowsticks
Summary: Peter Parker really doesn't need to take shit from a guy in hot pink joggers about his yoga class.Or, the story in which Wade has always loved the uptight ones and breaking them down, it's just a bonus that this one's flexible.





	1. Substitute Soy

**Author's Note:**

> White is in brackets [ ]  
> Yellow is in parentheses ( )
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time Peter Parker meets Wade Wilson, the man is in offensively pink joggers and a loose tee shirt. It's wrinkled from front to back, making the band logo almost hard to recognize. Flaming skulls, crossbones, the whole metal nine yards accented with ugly green stitching give way to a band Peter has never heard of, much less can name. The scarred man walks into the back room of the gym, sneakers silent on the plush ground, small stereo in one hand and a water bottle in the other. 

Wade is sweating, his shirt damp and clinging to fine muscles hidden beneath the layered clothing. His joggers leave little to the imagination in their state, Wade's hand wiping the slickness of perspiration from his brow.

At first Peter blinks away the eye sore that is Wade Wilson in favor of focusing on his class that he taught several times a week. There's a good twenty people on the matted floor, each relying on him to guide them to a more calm future and relieve them of the stresses of first world problems. Each attendee had their own yoga matts in different colors, nearly half of them wearing sleek black leggings and loose shirts for comfortability. Peter's own matt is purple with a small design on the back, complete with a matching purple water bottle containing fruit infused water. 

The brainiac is aware he's a cliché, but figures hydration and nice skin is worth the occasional harsh comment thrown his way. 

“Next, we're going to put your leg out...” Peter acts out the stretch, poised and still and almost like a statue. He is slow and methodic and focused, body relaxing into the movements and poses like they're natural formations he'd been doing all his life. Perhaps beginning in the womb?––Long legs, long arms, all accentuated by the stretched form he was holding. Peter feels the tension melt from his body as his muscles grow looser. 

“Yes, exactly like that,” He adds as his class follows suit, some students shakier in their form than others, but most trying it out, “There you go.”

Encouragement was always key to helping the tight muscled, tense students. Peter was quite aware most of his students were self conscious, though some were naturals and had been attending his classes since before his hiring at the gym, back when he taught on open grass under the shade of the oak trees dotting the city's main park. Peter found the AC of the gym was much preferred, albeit the openness of the park allowed for a more peaceful setting.

In the next few minutes, as the second position was mapped out and Peter roamed correcting his student's angles and forms, Peter's eyes are drawn back to the pink clad stranger as the bulkier man lies out his own matt. It is also pink, matching his joggers, and––

Wait.

Music breaks through the relaxing atmosphere of the yoga class. 

The tranquility is cut with a harsh guitar intro, electric sounds blaring through that tiny, Hello Kitty speaker. A garbled voice follows, singing along to the harsh bass and dear god, there's profanity in the music and the entire peaceful mood Peter worked so hard to create for his students is shattered. It's shattered into jagged pieces that litter the floor. Just like that. Peter threatens slicing himself open on how angry and embarrassed he is that this was even happening in the first place.

Three of Peter's students fall over, losing concentration and balance. To be fair, they were going to fall anyways. Peter knew it. The student's themselves knew it. But, for fuck's sake, this asshole definitely sped up the process and ruined any progress for the day. The three faces went beet red and Peter internally swore.

“Excuse me, sir?” Peter asked, more so demanded, anger barely contained as he stood and walked over to the disruptor. Peter's arms were crossed, back straight, lower lip pulled back by Peter's teeth, the brunet was barely controlling the urge to simply kick the stupid stereo and break it. However, he felt that was probably grounds for him being fired or suspended and Peter really needed this money.

Wade looked up, question in his eyes, head tilted upwards and towards the bare ceiling of the gym. He was mid sit up with arms crossed behind his head. Up close, Peter was exposed to the scarring that covered the man's face. It made wide roads and narrow ravines crisscross in his skin, like poor stitching with discoloration in some places. But despite the shocking sight, the man seemed to bare nice bone structure. The asshole possessed a sharp jawline, straight nose, blue eyes that crinkled at the edges ever so slightly as he possessed a crooked grin that made Peter's blood boil and threatened to crack his calm facade.

“Uh, I'm a little busy here,” Wade replied, resuming his workout. He held the crunch, then laid flat again, gesturing for Peter to stand on his toes, “Hold me in place will ya? Makes the action stimulate the core more.”

Peter's brows knit together and he bent down a bit, “You're interrupting my class and I would appreciate if you could turn off your music, please.” He said simply, choosing not to acknowledge the request.

Wade frowned deeper, “This is an actual class?” Wade sounded incredulous, “Like...Rogers pays you to hold this tea session with those house wives?”

Peter knew a flush had colored his cheeks in the wake of his anger rekindling ten fold. It was reborn into a livid flame that licked at his throat, his tongue burning with the tell tales of yelling. Peter swallowed and rested his hands on his hips, “Turn your music off or I will be forced to go get Rogers to make you do so.”

Wade sat up, pulling the stereo into his lap and turning it down. 

“Whatever you say, Tinker Bell.”

–------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time Wade Wilson encounters Peter Parker, Wade still doesn't know Peter's name. Given, Peter doesn't know his either, but that was far less important. After all, the cute brunet probably just recalled him as a Freddy Kruger look-a-like and that was usually enough for the cute ones to stay away. 

The brunet was most certainly full of sass, but really what Wade wants to focus on is the yoga instructor's ass as he worked out poses at the local park. 

[It's perky, I'll give it that.]

(Seriously? White, it's ass-quisite!)

[If I had eyes, I'd be rolling them at you right now.)

“That doesn't explain why I can feel you doing that.” Wade murmured to White, leash in hand and sweat dripping from his brow. The dog behind him was yapping away, moving from spot to spot to find a place to pee, giving Wade the time to truly appreciate the––

[Pretentious.]

(Cute.)

Yoga instructor. 

And that flaming temper the yogi held? It made Wade lick his lips. There was something about the composed and utterly tranquil ones that made Wade want to pounce and irritate. Plus, big brown eyes were good. More than good, they were entrancing and beautiful and when they begged silently in the bedroom?

[You are so getting ahead of yourself.]

The man grinned a bit to himself and the Boxes, pulling his hoodie tighter about his face with his free hand. Wade's sunglasses smooshed into the bridge of his nose as he effectively hid his gaze with the dark lenses. It worked usually to keep kids and their mothers from staring him down as an abomination for venturing into their 'normal' worlds.

[Yeah, because dark sunglasses aren't every creeper's trick with children.]

(We're not creeps, just curious!)

[About what? He has a nice ass, no need to wait around and pretend to work out.]

“Hey, I didn't know he'd be here. This is just fate, White!”

While Wade did agree on some level with White's comment, he couldn't help himself. Self control was already limited for the man and impulsivity led to his eyes darting from one tree to another before falling on the brunet several feet away again and again. It was inevitable. As Peter spread into some painfully backbreaking pose, exhaling as he stretched further and further, Wade couldn't help but appreciate the contours of Peter's body. Lean, sculpted, toned...Peter may not pack the same bulk Wade himself did with his strength training, but something told the scarred man that there was a formidable opponent somewhere buried underneath Peter's boyish looks. 

“How dreamy, too bad his class interrupts my warm ups...” Wade said wistfully. 

A minute later, he tugged on his dog's leash, continuing his morning jog with two things on his mind:

Ass and the Boxes arguing on whether Wade should approach the dreamy brunet in purple.

A third thing crossed his mind as the Pomeranian slowed down, he needed to go to the pet store and buy more dog food.

–––––––––––----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The following time they meet, it is Peter who notices Wade first. This has happened a time or two more since the park incident (apparently New York just isn't big enough to avoid these coincidental meetings). Wade is a tall, brute figure that not only wears clothes akin to a sleazy drug dealer or a randomized Sims character from what Peter has seen, but Wade is also always dawning some sort of hood that makes him even more noticeable in public. If he was going for subtly, Peter thought he was missing it by a long run looking so suspicious or bright all the time.

They're sitting on two complete opposite sides of the cafe, waiting for drinks. Of course it was horribly cliché, the brunet totally aware that enemies and coffee didn't mix well at all. He had a midterm at eleven, forgot to brush his teeth this morning, and hadn't bothered to change out of last night's sweats to attend his morning classes. 

All in all, Peter wanted to die, as most college students prayed during midterms. A meteroite striking earth, a power outage that rendered tests unreadable in dark classrooms, or even an alien invasion was preferable to scantrons and short response questions.

Peter had ordered a simple drink minutes before Wade did. It was a white peppermint mocha, extra whip, soy milk substitute. Expensive and unnecessary? Yes. Did it contain caffeine? Also yes. Was it bad for him? ...Yes. Did he bother caring? Absolutely not.

So, there was that. 

Peter was waiting patiently to the side despite his piss poor attitude. Dark circles were etched underneath large eyes, long lashes not enough of a distraction to lead other people not worry about the paleness of his skin nor the exhaustion that lingered and drooped every word Peter spoke. Heavy limbs, cement blocks for feet, hair tousled in a way that was barely a step above bed head––Peter had been up until four studying and was up again for his eight o clock class at seven. School was hell, really, and Peter Parker despite his intellect had no better way to describe it. It was just a _bonus_ that his new neighbor, of which he still hadn't had the displeasure of meeting in passing, had the most irritating and loud dog known to man. Thin apartment walls and excessive study habits coupled with the barking of a small dog made the dark circles under Peter's eyes a statement rather than a condition.

The college student was slouched, elbows resting on a high table that lacked chairs, taking in the aroma of coffee beans and the loud whirring of espresso machines with ease. Teenagers and adults walked in and out, iced and hot drinks in their hands that bore cozy gloves. The cafe had a dim and yellowed lighting that made the tables shine, creating a cozier atmosphere than the welcoming smell of coffee and cushioned seats already did. 

The noise was in a way comforting to the yoga instructor. The chatter of strangers, the lull of workers, the humming of the machinery, it was all a good distraction for his shot nerves that threatened to take him down. Despite Peter's practice requiring a peaceful setting, Peter was more inclined to noise than the quiet––Even when he studied. Noise, especially the cacophony of a busy coffee shop or frequented park soothed Peter Parker and made blocking the anxiety of intrusive tests, assholes ordering coffee in disgustingly green joggers (where did he even buy such ugly clothes?), and the dark circles under his eyes easier.

Right, he had nearly forgotten why his mouth tasted sour: Wade Wilson was here. Wade fucking Wilson. At Peter's favorite coffee shop. Not that Peter had looked Wade up to see if he was anyone important, of course. Not that Peter had checked the computers at work to find Wade's name. Not that Peter had been resisting the strongest urge to stalk his Instagram instead of being satisfied with the little bits Google had harbored on images for all to see on the scarred man. 

Well, okay, Peter had done those things, but not for any other reason besides curiosity. And to know what sort of life the douchebag led. It was in the name of research and as a science major, Peter couldn't hold back on creative spikes and questions like that. It would be stunting him, ruining him, killing what made him good at his studies. After all, who was Wade to insult his yoga class anyways? 

Turned out he was a daredevil, traveling, fitness instructor who just so happened to––

“White peppermint mocha! Extra whip, soy.” One of the baristas called out over the bustle of mindless chit chat.

Both Wade and Peter walked up to grab the large coffee, hands reaching and offensively snatching back when coming in contact with each other.

“Seriously?” Peter grumbled, looking up at the man and pursing his lips. 

Wade cocked a brow, “What? You're getting mad at me while you're trying to steal my coffee?”

The college student glared further, brows knit together in a sharp sort of annoyance. “I highly doubt you ordered a white peppermint mocha with soy, alright? So just cut this out, I really am not in the mood today.”

Wade rolled his eyes behind his shades, “I'm serious, you can see my receipt. This is my drink.”

“I was here first! Which means mine should be this one since it's the first one made of the same order.”

“But, I was born first,” Wade countered, smile smug and triumphant as if he'd just proposed a perfect scheme to end world hunger. The smile lit up his whole face while also igniting a fierce annoyance in Peter.

Peter sputtered, hands up and all, “What does that even have to do with the coffee orders?”

Wade's face fell into something innocent as he shrugged, “Nothing,” He effectively had the drink in hand now, sipped it, then continued, “Except that I'm your elder and giving me this coffee is respectful. So, there. Has my cooties now too. All mine.” 

Peter practically guffawed at the man, blinking as if Wade would disappear if he blinked hard enough. On the third blink, Wade was still there and Peter grimaced as his mind fought to find an eloquent way to tell Wade to simply fuck off. Just as he conjured something particularly wordy to say,

“Another white peppermint mocha, soy!” The same barista called.

Wade nudged it towards Peter, grin still on his face, “See, no biggie. You still got your coffee kiddo.”

And he walked off, snickering to himself as Peter seethed, slipping a sleeve onto his drink and snagging an additional sugar packet to stir in later. As he was bringing the cup to his lips, Peter noticed a name etched in sharpie on the cup, right over some red snowflakes.

Wade.

Fucking asshole.

Wade inspected his cup outside, holding it in a gloved hand. Peter was scrawled on it in a delicate, pretty cursive. The cashier had seemed the nice penmanship type.

“Peter. That works.” Wade said to himself as if testing the name on his tongue, the boxes agreeing with the sound of it. He nodded, making his way off the pavement while sipping the drink again before the caffeine hit him full force.


	2. Delivery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yellow)
> 
> [White]
> 
> Burnt my finger like 3 minutes after finishing this so no editing thus far. Sorry in advance.

Wade Winston Wilson loved a good video game. Anything with popping colors, excessive profanity, and wicked guns drew the man's attention like a magnet to metal. There were days where, if no work was in sight, Wade would glue himself to his tv and play for hours on end. Hands cramping, empty pizza boxes littering his small living room space, and the reeking stench of stale beer would permeate his apartment for a whole weekend if a game was good enough.

[Beer and B.O.]

(And let's not forget the smell of dirty socks!)

This particular weekend had brought relatively heavy snow alongside the shorter days and longer nights. The ice was packed so thick about the concrete grounds that the gym had closed for some of it's regular open days as per Rogers eloquent text and sign change on the glass doors of the facility. It was a stark contrast from the week before when Wade had walked his dog and spotted Peter at the park. The trees were iced and icicles touched the rooftops of many buildings, creating a wonderland. The air was so chilled it may as well have been laced with the tinkling laughter of Jack Frost himself. New York was picturesque, lined with the dense grey clouds, falling snow, and the whiteness making a glittering landscape when the lights outside tinkered on. 

Wade, for the first time since moving into his new place was really able to enjoy his new apartment, the cleanliness of it not being subject to his abuse yet, and the new lavender candle he'd bought from the mall. But, also, he was able to play a new raving game and really break in his couch. The old one had been...Unsightly with gashes and tears, a thick odor, and a green spot on the left arm rest that Wade swore to the Boxes hadn't been there before. The new one was relatively comfortable, a nice greyscale material that hopefully wouldn't dirty too soon.

(There isn't a smell better than lavender!)

[Except the clean linen candles.]

(Uhm, no. Those just smell like cheap detergent.)

“And we use that often.” Wade admitted, contributing to the conversation. His dog barked in response, as if agreeing. 

[Not often enough.]

(Seriously, for someone who sweats like you do...)

[In copious amounts...]

(We really should, like, do the laundry some times.)

There was a significant pause which equated to Wade and Yellow both sounding out a “naw” at that idea. 

The scarred man resumed his video game playing, Pomeranian by his side content to seemingly watch as Wade played. The controller vibrated and glowed in his gloved hands, the man sitting in nothing but a pair of Southpark boxers and his usual black gloves. A neon green sweatband wrapped about his head, accented with his name stitched in white was askew and hardly serving any purpose seeing as Wade was hardly straining himself. It had been a gift from one of his older students at the gym, he treasured it.

[Lame.]

(It was a cute gift.)

[Whatever.]

Wade coursed through the pixelated landscape of his videogame, pausing only to piss or eat or do both. However, once late enough, Wade found his eyes tired and his thumbs sore. The Boxes goaded him further, attempting to continue their level passing streaks, but alas,

“I can't. I'm going to burn my eyes.”

(Match your complexion!)

[Yeah, then the girls at the make up counters in the mall will really want to do your make up.]

Wade promptly ignored the Boxes and shut down his system, kicking back on the cloth couch. Legs were propped up on the coffee table, nudged safely between a half empty bag of trail mix and a beer. As the man was finally becoming comfortable, fingers gliding over the remote control to find something decent on Netflix to watch––

“Fuck this! Fuck that!” 

The voice was muffled, yet comprehensible through the thin apartment walls.

“Useless crock-pot, useless coffee maker, and...” There was a pause as it sounded like the speaker tripped over something, “Useless table!”

Wade sat up straight, listening with White and Yellow shushed as well.

“All I want is something to eat. That's it. Here I am looking forward to food after a shitty day and I have apples. Only apples.” The grumbling person continued, voice growing increasingly more agitated as it seethed and sifted through problem after problem with the poor Granny Smith apples.

Wade stood and headed over to the wall. Since moving into the new complex a month or two back, the man had yet to meet many of his neighbors. A few rooms down was an elderly woman named Pat who seemed to be made of firecrackers and cocaine with the way she excitedly and vigorously pet his Pomeranian. She had hardly blinked, let alone cringed at the sight of Wade and that made her precious in his book. There was also a single father and his young daughter down the hall, both of which had dodged Wade like the plague. Yet, other than them, Wade had yet to see or hear from his next door neighbor. He had one, seeing as he was the last room of the hall, but still.

What were the chances they'd yet to meet?

Wade had simply assumed his neighbor to be a hermit. Well, actually, Yellow had suggested that idea and it had grown from there. A hermit with mushrooms growing from his deformed back and hoarding lampshades with plaid print.

But this voice, the voice yelling about apples and a lack of substance sounded younger, on the boyish side, and somehow familiar and mushroom-less. 

(Probably not a fan of plaid either.)

[You can't possible know that form his voice.] 

(I bet he likes solid prints more.) 

Wade pondered the tone of the stranger longer and as he was just on the brink of knowing who from sound alone, the stranger gave away his identity and yoga perfected ass with five words:

“I'm even out of soy!” The brunet groaned with exasperation, hands probably thrown up in defeat and eyes heavy with the darkness of sleep deprived bags to match his work out bag. Regardless, what mattered was that the voice belonged to Peter. Yoga instructor Peter, Peter who drank soy for some god awful reason but still got dairy containing whip, the same Peter whom Wade had yet to internet stalk.

Of course it was Peter, Wade's entire life was made of ironic fanfiction based set ups that continued to confuse and haunt him. 

[Well this _is_ fanfiction.]

(Are you telling me this isn't all real?)

[You are so behind in everything.]

Wade sat by the wall that separated him and the grouchy yogi, ear against the pale wall, listening intently for anything else.

(Creepy,) Yellow hummed, tone melodic and high pitched.

[Sheesh, at least buy him dinner first.]

Immediately, Wade had his phone out, an app open, sifting through what few places were open for delivery with White's brilliant statement in mind. 

[This isn't what I meant at all!]

Thumbs flew across the cracked touch screen in hopes of finding something other than pizza or Indian to deliver to Peter's.

(Why not Indian?)

“Too risky he won't like it,” Wade muttered, voice low to ensure Peter didn't hear him. 

Then, Wade saw it: Chinese take out, still delivering at eleven. Well, past eleven, but close enough. Everyone loved Chinese food...Right?

[Probably.]

(Duh. You should dump him if he doesn't.)

[We're not...Dating him. We all know that. Right?]

“Yeah, yeah Debby Downer we get it. We're a single, sticky handed mess every Saturday night.”

The fitness instructor opened the Chinese restaurant's menu and read through it quickly on his phone, Yellow shouting about the foods he liked and White grumbling at those he did not.

(Do you even like anything?)

[I like prawns.]

“More like you like the sauce they come in,” Wade snorted, only half listening to the Boxes.

[Not true, I like plain prawns too.]

(Breaded doesn't count as plain.)

[Says who?]

Wade could feel a migraine impending from the incessant arguing.

“Guys, shut up, food is some serious shit. Anyways, where was I? Oh, yes,” The man reached for his cell phone, “About to buy Petey dinner so I can properly look him up online without getting the heebie jeebies about it.”

Wade, like any good gentleman, ordered an assortment of food for the struggling brunet. There was a chicken dish, fried rice, and some sort of prawns soaked in a sweet sauce as per White's insistence. Within the hour, Peter's grumbling had died down to Wade being able to hear the light sounds of the apartment complex settling, his dog yapping here and there, and sometime between ordering the food and setting up the tv, the scarred man had even fallen asleep with White and Yellow lingering on the edges of his consciousness.

(This isn't creepy.)

[Most certainly not.]

(It isn't!)

[You are aware that Peter will probably throw the food out because this is weird.]

(He wouldn't waste food.)

[Mhm.]

The dog curled up on Wade's lap, tail in the direction of Wade's face and keeping the man's chest warm. He rested a hand lightly on the golden fur, only subconsciously aware of the animal.

Eventually, the Boxes stopped too.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No, Gwen, I'm telling you this guy is a fucking nut job.” Peter insisted on the phone, sitting on his couch. The girl responded with a heavy laugh and assurance that Peter was seriously overreacting.

“He insulted my class! Then I saw him at my coffee shop. _My_ coffee shop!” Peter insisted adamantly, discontent heavy in his voice. 

_“You're aware it isn't **your** coffee shop, right Peter?”_ Gwen asked her friend seriously before there was a knock at Peter's apartment door.

“Uh, Gwen, let me get back to you in a sec.”

Peter had experienced some odd coincidences in his life. Many of those experiences he cared to never dredge up from the crevices of his memories, others were hilarious happenings that made him and a few friends laugh during a round of drinks.

Yet, nothing seemed to take the cake like the food gods delivering the science major some Chinese food, fried rice included, at midnight while his stomach screamed in agony at a lack of sustenance. When the college student reached his door, initially he was wary of the stranger but knew Gwen was on the phone and if he was attacked, he could scream and she'd call the cops. 

Probably. Hopefully.

The brunet shook the thought from his head.

Still, Peter was confused as to who would be knocking so late, and even more concerned there was food he couldn't really afford seemingly ready and steaming just within the plastic bag with a red 'Thank You!' printed on it from what he could see from his door's peephole. Still, Peter answered the door with an awkward grin smattering his face.

“Uh, hello?” The 'please-don't-kill-me-or-be-an-axe-murderer' plea was poorly hidden under the nervousness Peter exhibited.

The delivery man, well _boy_ more like it from the lankiness and prickling acne covering every plane of the blond's face, pulled out a receipt. “Hi. Delivery for Peter? Yeah, Peter. Just sign here.” The teen fumbled with his bag, “Special message from the orderer too: Promise it's not poisoned. Please stop yelling about how hungry you are so late.” 

The college student flushed, redness coloring his cheeks and part of his neck. Had he really been that loud?

“Sounds like you've got some accommodating neighbors,” The blond chuckled while passing over the receipt.

Peter took the paper with the note scrawled on the back and the charges on the front. The blond also handed Peter a pen to sign on the line. Brown eyes with crinkling at the edges squinted without glasses to aid in looking over the receipt which displayed that the food was paid for and the delivery boy was already tipped. The yoga instructor took the bag and grimaced, the teenager waving Peter off and rushing down the hall to the elevator with another food delivery to make undoubtedly.

Peter closed the door and set the food down on the creaking table separating his kitchen and living room space. He tore open the bag and found plastic containers holding a lot of food. It smelled delicious. The food was still piping hot and Peter opened one of the white containers, the smell of buttery fried rice and spicy chicken radiating strong from the bag. He quickly snatched his phone from the couch.

“What if this shit's poisoned?” He asked Gwen after explaining what had happened.

 _“Peter, you're overreacting... **again**.”_ She sighed, _“What Chinese food company is gonna deliver rat poison General's Chicken?”_

Peter frowned further, slumped over his table and fork stirring the rice. “Idunno, I mean it looks normal. But...”

 _“Just eat it. Or I'll come over and eat it for you.”_ Gwen threatened, the sound of her getting up and moving evident through the rustling on the phone.

Peter couldn't help the grin that touched his face, “There's a hell of a lot here, you might as well drop by.”

_“Don't eat it all. I'll be over in ten.”_

“No promises.”

After hanging up, Peter took a tentative bite of the food and decided if he waited ten minutes and felt impending death, he'd call the police or...Something.

When ten minutes had come and passed with Peter's hunger increasing tenfold and him still alive he shouted a grateful, “Thank you!” To whichever neighbor had ordered the food. Him and Gwen dug in as soon as she arrived in fluffy pajama pants with her work clothes in a napsack. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wade, within his own apartment, woke drowsily to the shouting. He fell back asleep almost immediately to Yellow squealing and White mentioning the idiocy of some people. 

(Now we can look him up!)

[Great, now the dog's awake again.]

The Pomeranian yipped happily, almost as if knowing that White was upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks! I was so excited with all the feedback, sorry if I haven't gotten back to all of you, I appreciate all your comments equally. Also: Any suggestions for Wade's dog's name? I have a tentative name in mind but still am unsure of it hence the nameless dog lol. Thanks for reading!


	3. All's Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight to the death. 
> 
> [Not really.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh geez college is killin' me guys. This is unedited so please don't take any fuck ups too crazy lol. Enjoy!
> 
> [White.]
> 
> (Yellow!)

When Wade dreams, he sometimes dreams of free falling like that time he visited Africa and went skydiving. His Instagram holds many pictures of that trip. The wind had been dry as it whistled past his ears, low and hot and so sweltering it was a relief to plummet from the airplane and feel the cool satisfaction of air brushing his skin. The world had been small and the grounds an expanse of beauty that Wade could hardly appreciate with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He went down yelling, joy coloring his voice brightly.

 

He'd nearly forgotten to eject his parachute.

 

But, in these dreams, the ones he has more often as of late, he is still home in New York with a be-speckled sky drowned out by the louder counterparts of a stellar light pollution caused by none other than the skyscrapers, movie theaters, and convenience stores all brightly lit. Cars honk and race beneath him and he is falling so quickly, yet the ground never reaches him. The city is a masterful swatch of acrylic––Wonderfully thick and dark, bright neon littering a rather greyscale world. He grapples onto the nearest building, swinging in a large arc and a woman from below, her scream is guttural and distinct above the cacophony of honking and music and chatter. She is pointing at Wade's descent.

 

She distracts him momentarily.

 

The Boxes don't reach him here, in this fantastical realm, and Wade finally feels free in the ironically constricting red spandex of a suit littered with gizmos and gadgets and katanas. His mind is generous, is imaginative as it has conjured the array of weapons for these adventures he goes on. Wade feels powerful, busting with muscle and bursting the seams of the fourth dimension with his scars following him from real life into his sleep realm too.

 

He can never escape those damned scars. But, the red spandex covers them perfectly and people are forced to greet Wade as he is, nameless and powerful and a mercenary in these dreams. He dubs himself a merc with a mouth since talking with the Boxes is a habit he cannot break, even in sleep, even when they do not reply. The people in his dreams stare when he talks to himself with grandeur gestures to express excitement, displeasure, annoyance.

 

He dubs himself Deadpool, it's a nifty name, came to him (literally!) in a dream. That's how he names his dog, that's how he thinks of himself when the Boxes yell, that's what gets him through the day.

 

Wade can only think of one way to sum up these dreams packed with vivid color and cruel violence: “Awesome.”

 

Correction, he usually describes these dreams with two words: “ _Fucking_ awesome.”

 

To which both Boxes agree on the adjectives for the first and only time whenever Wade recites these dreams to them in rich detail.

 

Yet, Wade is not dreaming right now, despite him checking his body for the red suit and swords. Peter fucking Parker is standing in the back room of the gym, yet instead of being in his typical lightly colored and tight fitting yoga attire, he is in sweat pants and a loose tee with a webbed design. A freestanding heavy bag is at the college student's disposal and Wade is hurriedly ushered by the Boxes to hide behind the corner of the room to watch that perfect form use muscles Wade would have never guessed Peter had.

 

“Oh fuck.” Wade breathes, watching Peter pull back and swing his leg at the bag, hitting it sharply and precisely.

 

(What a man!)

 

[His form is sloppy.]

 

(Stop being so judgy.)

 

“Both of you shut up! I'm trying to watch,” Wade whispers to the Boxes, words coming out quick and harsh, in a single breath.

 

Promptly, White replies with an exasperated, [Me talking doesn't hinder your sight.]

 

Wade ignores the Box, eyes wandering from Peter's hands, up his shoulders, over his neck, and across the ribcage. The shirt leaves much to the imagination considering how loose it is, but Wade's imagination is wild and filling in the details where the shirt is less giving. Wade is enthralled by the brunet, even while Peter is a sweating, angry and wound tight mess of brown locks and tired eyes––Especially when Peter is a mess of brown locks and tired eyes. Wade wonders if this is a crush or infatuation, if there is even a difference between the two when it comes to the coffee loving, sleep deprived, multi-talented brunet.

 

(Ooh! I have an idea if you're done with the sappy shit.)

 

Sweat drips down the side of Peter's neck, Wade's eyes following it like a trance.

 

[Oh, wonderful. Those tend to work out well.]

 

The brunet takes a deep breath, chest expanding and collapsing. Wade shudders as he watches the college student lick his lips.

 

(No, really! We could go over there and help him with his form if we can ever stop drooling.)

 

“You want me to go over there and correct him?” Wade subconsciously wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and low and behold, drool shines slick on his skin.

 

[Ew.]

 

(No! Just...Gently help him.)

 

“I can think of several things I can _gently_ help him with.”

 

[And just how are we supposed to do that?] White asked as he ignored Wade.

 

(You both make everything so complicated.)

 

* * *

 

So, that was how Wade found himself dragging out a freestanding heavy bag, red and covered in a popular logo. It was worn, a deep red with some patchiness due to use. Peter, for the duration, didn't even spare Wade a glance. The man figures the yogi is far too invested in his work out and the music blaring through his ears. That, and Wade was setting up at the opposite corner of the room, facing away from Peter. Albeit, the mirrors on all four walls made it hard to hide, that didn't stop Wade from trying.

 

[Pathetic.]

 

After a quick warm up and some stretches, Wade finally gets into using the bag. It was his original intent for coming to the gym, Peter was a mere eye candy bonus. After all, if the college student was so in tune with his session, why on earth would Wade dare––

 

He was pulling out one of Peter's earbuds in a instant, Yellow's pestering finally getting the better of Wade. In response, Peter had jerked back, elbow slamming defensively into Wade's gut as Peter's other hand was pulled back, prepared to...

 

“Holy shit,” Wade doubled over, wheezing as the air had quite literally been hit out of his lungs. He was staring at the matted ground, the Boxes laughing at him hysterically. He tried to shush them, but a gentle hand was on his shoulder and the man couldn't help but raise watery, blue eyes to meet concerned brown ones.

 

From the dangling earbud, Wade could hear a rather loud Lady Gaga tune playing.

 

“You like Lady Gaga?” Wade asked dumbly, eyes wide, voice horribly strained as he _wheezed_.

 

(He _is_ our soul mate!)

 

[I doubt we have a soul...]

 

Peter's exasperation was layered heavy, “Are you _kidding_ me, are you fucking kidding me? You scared the _shit_ out of me!”

 

Wade stood up some, not nearly to his full height, still feeling the phantom of Peter's elbow in his gut. “I was just––“

 

“Just _what?_ ” Peter asked, hands up, “Just trying to annoy me? Insult me again? Kick me out of here so you can do your _macho_ exercise routine? All of the above? I'd bet all of the above!”

 

[That was sort of cute.]

 

(How he made air quotes over the word 'macho?')

 

[Yeah.]

 

(Wade! Wade! White thinks Peter's cute now!)

 

[I said what he _did_ was _sort of_ cute.]

 

(Same difference.)

 

[That's a fucking paradox.]

 

(You're getting testy in our old age, White.)

 

[No, you're just getting dumber.]

 

(Wade!) Yellow whined, (White is being mean to me!)

 

[Stop being stupid. Remember when I told you being stupid was gonna start getting painful?]

 

(Was that an American Dad reference?)

 

[…]

 

(…you said you hated that show.)

 

[We should really tune back into what's actually happening.]

 

(Oh, right! We're still doubled over aren't we?)

 

[And drooling. We're always drooling.]

 

(We just have a lot of saliva!)

 

[Yellow, we need to pay attention.]

 

(Right, right.)

 

Wade cocked a brow, brain fizzling at the Boxes and attempting desperately to keep up with Peter, “Uh, no. None of the above? Just...I just got here,” He finished lamely.

 

[Winner. What a winner, ladies and gentlemen.]

 

(The ol' Wade Wilson, a charmer!)

 

Peter rolled his eyes. Arms were crossed defensively over his chest and the harsh lighting of the gym contorted his features into an even nastier scowl than Peter normally would sport. “So why _are_ you touching my ears?”

 

(Correction.)

 

[We only touched his earbuds.]

 

(And only one of them.)

 

“I touched your earbuds, one. Two...Your form.” Wade stated plainly, eyes rounding to the bag, to the ceiling, and finally re-meeting Peter. When Peter did not comment, his stance did not soften, his eyebrows did not unknit, Wade proceeded: “I couldn't help but notice it's a little...”

 

[Weak.]

 

(Shaky.)

 

[Poor posture.]

 

(Feet too close together...)

 

[Like an exotic bird, perched and annoying.]

 

(Are you talking about us or still Peter?)

 

[I'm not even sure anymore.]

 

“...Off.” The man finished, with no help from the Boxes. Wade hurriedly added, “I just, I dunno Petey, you've got a good kick and some nice moves but they're all a little sloppy. I was gonna offer to help you out. If you, er, wanted me to I mean. After all...This is something I give classes on. Weekly. We use the free standers a lot too so I know how to use 'em.”

 

Peter blinked, eyes narrowing shortly after Wade's proposal processed, Peter's mind making sense of the words. The offer seemed innocent enough, but if the last few encounters with Wade meant anything––They meant he was certainly anything _but_ innocent. Not to mention Peter couldn't help but feel Wade were insulting him.

 

Again.

 

That seemed to be Wade's thing anyhow, insulting or annoying Peter. They had had very few encounters together given, but Peter associated the man with headaches. Headaches, bulging muscles, and a repertoire of sarcasm that rendered Peter feeling like he had finally met someone of even playing ground.

 

Nevertheless, Peter grew up learning one thing from his Aunt, and it was never refusing help or criticisms if he knew he needed them. Now, whether she'd agree this was applicable to the current situation with daredevil extremist Wade Wilson was up for debate. Peter liked to think Wade's offer wouldn't count, but knowing Aunt May with her judge-free attitude...He knew it did apply to Wade. Scars, eccentricity and all.

 

She was too good a person. Peter on the other hand was barely a person without his coffee, let alone facing Wade.

 

“I really don't think I need your help.” Peter said slowly.

 

Wade crossed his arms, almost indignant now, feeling brushed off with no due reason.

 

[Recall the stolen Starbucks?]

 

(Or the stereo in the yoga class?)

 

[Or your hideous scars?]

 

(Oh yeah, we're totally ugly. Bet Petey doesn't want us to help him because he doesn't want us to touch him.)

 

[That's the smartest thing you've ever said, Yellow.]

 

Wade grimaced, considering their explanations. What the Boxes said could unfortunately be true, were _probably_ true, but the man couldn't help but feel Peter wouldn't be so...

 

Judgmental.

 

It didn't seem characteristic of the younger man with his seemingly well rounded life. Mindfulness, yoga, college, all that shit.

 

[Excuse you, an education is not shit.]

 

(That's right readers! Make sure you go to college so you can avoid ending up like pathetic ol' Wade over here.)

 

“I swear I'm not making fun of you, if that's what you think.” Wade clarified for good measure. “I honestly just want to help. What if you really needed to use these skills and one slip up fucked you over? Then you would wish you'd listened to me.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes, “I can take care of myself.”

 

Wade snorted, “No freak is gonna listen to your mindfulness bullshit when he's attacking you.”

 

[Oh great, go on threatening him.]

 

Peter took a step back, face twisted into a sneer, “You really think you're that much better than me? Fucking _fine,_ wanna prove it? Spar with me. Right now, right here.”

 

Wade's brows shot up in surprise while the Boxes fell silent for the first time since the encounter began. For the first time in history, perhaps.

 

“You want me to...fight you? Like for real?” Wade asked. He wanted to make sure he was hearing right.

 

[What with all the delusions, it is easy for us to hear wrong.]

 

(Remember that one time when we––)

 

[No.]

 

(But we––)

 

[Not now.]

 

Peter nodded, uncrossing his arms and beginning to move his equipment to the side. He aimed to free up the matted floor.

 

“Yeah, unless you're scared I'm gonna kick your ass.”

 

(Ooh, I love the feisty ones!)

 

“Oh come on Petey, I'm like twice your size and...You know what?”  
  


[What?]

 

“Fuck it. I'm game. No dick hits, that's my only rule. I'd prefer if you'd stay away from this beautiful 'ol mug of mine but, hey, what's a little extra damage gonna do, am I right?”

 

(Maybe he can hit us pretty!)

 

Peter nodded his agreement and got into a defensive stance, hunched slightly with legs parted.

 

(Still not far apart enough!) Yellow sang.

 

[This is going to be disgustingly easy.]

 

The two men readied themselves. There was a shout of 'Fight!' by Wade in a tone reminiscent of Mortal Kombat games and Peter went for the first hit.

 

And the second.

 

The third landed a blow to Wade's chest, effectively sending the man back some.

 

“Baby boy's got fight!” Wade jeered.

 

Another set of successive blows had Wade backing up. The air was thick with tension, easily cut by the stream of limbs flying to connect with skin. Wade landed a few kicks, sending peter back on previously conquered grounds.

 

Few punches were successful. Both were good defenders, Wade using his size to intimidate and Peter utilizing his lithe figure to be unpredictable.

 

Peter was fast, light like a hummingbird whilst Wade was thick and quick like smoke.

 

Wade felt his back touch the sharp cold glass of the mirrors. Surprise lit within him, how Peter had managed to gain that much ground on him was impressive. Yet, simply cornering him would not be enough. Wade was especially good at fighting in close range.

 

Peter was alight, coming at Wade with a hand raised. Wade blocked it, dropping to the side and out of the way. Peter hopped back, arms ready to defend himself while Wade circled him like a predatory shark.

 

They made brief eye contact. Brown eyes were heavy with irritation and blue one's utterly bemused.

 

Peter felt the throb in his shoulder where one of Wade's hits connected.

 

Peter was a hint too slow, pain dulling him, his brain short circuiting as Wade rounded towards the brunet. There was a resounding collision of skin on skin. Dull, excruciating, Peter's cheek burned with heat and something akin to a thudding rush of blood to the injured spot.

 

Wade stepped back again, ignoring the small group of gym goers watching them.

 

[Rogers is not gonna be happy to hear about this shit.]

 

(Shh! I'm watching!)

 

“I hope purple is your color because that's gonna bruise.” Wade hummed.

 

Peter touched the skin gingerly before getting back into position. They were close, nose to chest and Peter was concentrating, calculating. Sweat dripped down his neck. Peter's shirt was clinging to him, slick and sticky. Wade on the other hand was barely out of breath.

 

Nevertheless, Peter was plotting.

 

In an instant, Peter was gone, pursed lips and all. How, Wade would never know, but the man felt a swift kick to swipe him off his feet from behind. Blundering, all two hundred pounds fell to the ground in an ugly heap. Before Peter could act further, Wade bounced back up, using his hands to propel upward.

 

[Ooh, now he's done it.]

 

It was Peter's turn to feel the cool glass against his back. He hissed at it, brown eyes met with steady blue ones. One of Wade's arms barricaded Peter to the mirror by his neck. The height difference was dizzying as Wade's sheer size blocked all sight of anything else.

 

Peter wondered if his nausea was from the close proximity or from the jab to his gut earlier.

 

Scars upon scars and blue skies reflecting Peter's face of fear were all Peter could see.

 

“See what I mean?” Wade asked lowly.,“If I really wanted to hurt you, you'd be hurt. That simple.”

 

(Ugh, I love when we get like this.)

 

[Bet the readers do too.]

 

Peter struggled. Hands attempted to pry Wade's arm from his neck, the pressure surprisingly light. Even if Peter could remove Wade's tree branch of an arm, there was the issue of his sheer mass which, quite frankly, was uncomfortably close. It was keeping Peter crushed against the glass.

 

“Now, say uncle and I'll let you go.”

 

Peter frowned, “Seriously?”

 

“Yep.”

 

(It's the rules!)

 

“Alright,” Peter took a deep breath and––

 

Wade collapsed to the ground, clutching his junk in his hands as the Boxes laughed in his head. Peter's kick was precise, sharp, strong.

 

(No fair! No fair!)

 

“No dick hits my ass,” Peter mocked, grabbing his bag and stepping over the pained man, “If I was being attacked, the first thing I'd go for is the dick.”

 

With a bright smile, Peter added: “See you around, Wade.”

 

Wade lifted a weak hand and waved a half-assed goodbye.

 

[Oh, this means war. Doesn't it?]

 

(I think we're in love.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I use white and yellow so much, but I'm also not sorry. I love them so much.


End file.
